


Something About This Place

by almostkawaii (AlmostNotReallyKawaii)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Diary/Journal, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Love Confessions, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-18
Updated: 2016-04-18
Packaged: 2018-06-03 00:15:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6589042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlmostNotReallyKawaii/pseuds/almostkawaii
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's something about 221B Baker Street that John just can't let go of. He's very aware of it, but refuses to acknowledge it. Until he decide to actually listen to Ella and pens what he's always felt. Right before he has to face someone that really shouldn't be there. Someone dead. Someone...Sherlock. </p><p>He can't possibly be back.</p><p>Johnlock, post-Reichenbach fic, cuteness and shyness, rated for swearing</p>
            </blockquote>





	Something About This Place

_Part 1: Something Empty_

_As I'm dreaming,_

_will you meet me there?_

_As I'm dreaming,_

_will you see me there?_

* * *

 

_January 3, 2014_

It's been a few years since...

I haven't got much to say today, except, well…

Blogging hurts too much.

_January 5, 2014_

I'm not even quite sure what to write in here. Ella tells me it'll help me. I really don't see how.

Mycroft came by again today, trying to get me to leave 221B, saying that I needed a "change in scenery." I almost shut the door in his face.

Nothing could make me leave here. No matter what, I don't believe I'll ever move away from here. I don't know why, though.

That's a lie. I know exactly why. It's a stupid why, but a why nonetheless.

Hope.

The stupid bloody thing, sneaking its way into the most impossible of situations.

Like hoping your dead best friend could come back to life. Atleast so you could tell him everything you forgot to say while he was alive.

It's keeping me tied down to this place. I think I've even still got a few fingers in a ziplock in the freezer. I haven't the heart to do anything with them.

It's these little things.

A friend atop the mantle. He listens to me.

Little comments on my blog.

"John, fetch me my revolver."

"I didn't steal the bus. I borrowed it."

"There's some cans of beer in the fridge. Next to the feet."

Tiny bullet-sized holes in the walls, next the the yellow smiley face.

I hate this place, but I can't help but love it.

_January 8, 2014_

Wow, I wrote a lot last time. Ella will be pleased.

Harry came by for a visit. Got herself a new girlfriend. Didn't bring her round though. Thought I must be "sensitive."

Had a nice chat. Talked about the job, our friends. You know, the ones that are left.

I've been back at my job at the medical clinic for the past couple months. It's good there; I say hullo to Sarah every morning.

It's a simple life. No running about, no dead bodies-well, not too many. Steady. No twists and turns and spoilt milk. The kind of life I've always wanted.

That's a lie. Sorry, I know I should be telling the truth in here.

Honestly, I miss all of it. The running around, the blood samples, the boot scuffs and tan lines and hair pins and speckled blondes and aluminum crutches.

I miss life with him. It's so calm and quiet now. Almost eerie. Why did he have to-

I need to stop asking that question. I need to stop asking that question. I need to stop asking that question.

Ella says I'm supposed to repeat things three times if I want them to stick in my head. He didn't have to repeat anything. He remembered everything on first si-

Why does everything always tie back to him? It's not fair.

_January 11, 2014_

Fuck. It's almost the day.

I can't bring myself to leave this bloody place, yet I hate every moment I spend here.

Why is that? I know why.

I can imagine the piles of books, the bloody man with a harpoon, the Christmas party, the head in the fridge.

This place is full of memories, memories of just him.

I want to go, but I need to stay.

I hate it. I miss him. I need him.

_January 13, 2014_

I don't know. I don't know _what_ I'm feeling anymore. Only how much. The extent. The depth.

And what I feel is tremendous, overbearing, cumbersome, filling, disheartening, hopeful.

It fills my heart yet leaves me feeling empty.

I don't know what's real anymore. I don't know what's true to my heart because I don't know where my heart stands anymore. I feel powerful, weak, confident, pitiful.

And it's all because of one man.

It seems I have fallen into something I wasn't prepared for. Something I don't know the identity of.

I've fallen in _something_ with Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

_Part 2: Something There_

I stare down at the words on the paper, shocked that I found the courage to write them. In pen.

Ella will be proud.

 _Crap_ , I thought, _Ella's going to read this._

I didn't have the heart to open the journal again and write anything.

So I didn't.

* * *

 

I walk down the street at a brisk pace, knowing and not knowing what I was expecting.

It's January 15th.

I reach the end of the street and pause in my steps. Shoulders brush past me as I take a deep breath and brace myself before turning the corner.

But nothing can brace me for this. Never. Not last year, not this year. Certainly not when it happened. I stare across the street at St. Bartholomew's Hospital. I don't know what I'm doing, except that I do it each year.

Words tumble and crash amidst each other in my head, with no discernible beginning or end, the haunting melody of his "note."

I gather my wits and take another breath. _This must be done._ I've done it every year since... Well, it's never been easy. Hell, I can't even say it out loud. I've said it but once, to Ella, early last year, when I was still bruised and battered in pain and loneliness, but never again.

I pick up a slow, easy pace as I walk across the street, dreading the moment I will have to stand there. _There_. Where all of my excitement and pain and friendship and love and tears had been swallowed up by the ground, by the cold concrete. But I have never believed in him more than I do now.

I've crossed the street now, and am currently just staring at the little grooves on the ground leading up to the spot.

Every year, I feel this myriad of strange emotions, and a couple that I cannot identify. A location, a memory, a year, a person. Ingredients for a poignant memory of days past. Ingredients for...well, heartbreak.

But right now, in this moment, I feel something totally different. Don't get me wrong, all the emotions of sadness, pain, and misery make my heart clench, but I cant help but notice the electricity in the air. Static, but expectant. Heavy, but...alive.

Which is strange. I wonder how anything could ever feel alive to me here, in this place. The heaviness, the static, it was all familiar, but the constantly pressing presence of something else literally made me hold my breath. I hadn't even realized when I stopped breathing in the first place.

I shook my head and push the strange feeling to the back of my mind as I plow forward. I had to do this every year. I had promised myself. I had promised him.

I walk up to the spot where he had once lay. Strangely, though, no feelings of sadness come. Instead within me rises a sense of excitement, foreshadowing, foreboding, and electricity. I kneel on my haunches and slowly move my fingers towards the spot where he had once lain. I drag my fingers across the rough concrete, feeling every groove and bit of gravel there. Every year in the past, the tears had begun flowing copiously from my eyes, unbridled and hot. This year, just one tear rolls down my cheek before I notice a pair of shined black shoes standing before me. I look more closely at those shoes. Recognize them, but can't identify them. Who did they belong to? Mycroft? No, they were far too scuffed. I remembered that Mycroft didn't necessarily prefer "legwork." Moriarty? He had disappeared right after...the fall, and I could all but guess where he could be. The shoes seem far more familiar to me than any of those people's shoes would, though. I examine the show more closely and almost immediately discern its brand name and something clicks. _Yves Saint Laurent,_ I think. _Yves Saint Laurent_...

All this flew through my head in the second between when I first saw the shoes and when I looked up at the man who donned them. I am definitely not prepared for what I see before me. Who I see before me. The thought had vaguely flickered through my subconscious before it was overwhelmingly crushed by the heavy barrage of other thoughts.

I look up into clear crystal blue eyes, filled with some sort of strong, raw emotion that seemed foreign to them. A thin smile adorned the face, also brimful of emotion that could come tumbling out in any moment.

I freeze. See a word fall from the lips of the man in front of me.

A man who was supposed to be dead.

"John," a rough voice begins before I pass out.

* * *

_Part 3: Something Alive_

I blink my eyes open and try to identify my surroundings. My headache lazily pounds my skull with a dull, aching pain as I try to sit up and figure out where the fuck I am.

And then I remember. I shoot up straight from wherever I am, steadying myself by placing my hands on the pliable yet firm surface below me. My head is reeling, and I realize that I'm in a bed. I look around, blinking, and identify the room around me.

Sherlock's room.

I hadn't been in here for years. Passing by it every day caused me enough pain. The memories of Sherlock in this room came flooding through my mind. Warm and cozy as I left to view the "seven" crime scene. Lying there, unsteady, frantic after his first encounter with Irene Adler.

My heart clenches as I notice a black coat hanging on the arm of a chair. A black coat that really shouldn't be there. A black coat that was last seen on the body of a dead man.

Then I remember.

I glance around the room, looking for any sign of human life, human presence. I whip the blankets off and realize that I'm in my pants and undershirt, and that I had been sweating severely.

I succumb to the urges of my questioning mind and delve into my thoughts.

Sherlock was my life, always on my mind, almost always in my presence. I could hardly dare to believe that this man who unwittingly held so much power over me was alive again. There was no chance, no possible way that he could...

Then again, he  _is_ Sherlock.

I have no idea how to react to him. All I know or care about is that he's alive.

Another lie.

I want to beat him up for leaving me, for abandoning me, for making my heart wrench at the strangest of times, for the moment I stopped breathing when I saw his body, lying dead and cold upon the sidewalk. I want him to feel the pain I felt, knowing that I would never be able to tilt my head towards him and tell him to shut up because he was being impolite.

Suddenly I realize that if he had spent all this time without me, he must have felt something too...then I remember that Sherlock doesn't _have_ feelings. Not like, mine, anyways. His heart is closed, blocked off from all others.

The sound of shattering glass echoes from beyond the door and interrupts my thoughts. _Fuck this, I just want to see him again_ , I think. I wrap the bedsheets around me in a manner reminiscent of Sherlock himself and slowly make my way out of the room and down the hall, following the strange smell coming from towards the kitchen. I round the corner and-

There's shards of broken glass on the ground, and something boiling on the stovetop. It looks like thick, gloopy, brown mud - then I notice the multitudes of crudely ripped open, empty teabags sitting on the counter. I smile despite myself. I look over to the window across the room and see a head of curly dark brown hair on the sofa facing away from me.

I take a deep breath.

Walking towards the sofa, I tell myself to calm down, to verify all the facts before reaching a conclusion - something that...Sherlock taught me. I paused for a moment. I reveled in the fact that I was able to say his name in my head without any severe reaction. I took another step towards the figure - the shoulders that the head rested on visibly tensed as I pass the sofa. I turned around sharply.

And there he is.

Unspeakable volumes of emotions swell through my mind, my heart, my body. My chest lets out a huge sigh of relief, and I feel as though a burden has been lifted from my shoulders. Then I really look into the face I see before me.

Almost everything is the same. The piercing blue-green eyes, the sharp cheekbones, the dark curly hair, the bushy eyebrows and the perfect bow-shaped lips. Seeing his face now, after all this time, I can't resist the swelling emotion I feel for him. But it's something more than that. Something draws me to him, and makes me feel all conflicted inside. I know what it is, but I can't acknowledge it. Now simply isn't the time.

"Sherlock," the name falls from my lips as his head turns up slightly, his eyes piercing as ever, "you're alive."

"Hello, John," he says before a small smile creeps onto his face. "Perfectly sound analysis."

* * *

_Part 4: Something Hopeful_

His voice.

So irritating, so compelling, so familiar.

It's the familiarity that gets me the most.

I can quite literally _hear_ the smirk in his voice.

It almost makes me smile.

I do not know what's restraining me. No idea how I'm restraining myself.

Perhaps it's the _how much_ that I feel for the man who sits before me, words, and explanation tumbling from his mouth while I'm not really paying attention..

I realize that I feel so much for this man that the pain he has caused me is almost dismissible in light of his return.

I know that doesn't make any sense.

I should feel anger, pain, betrayal, hurt.

But I don't.

I hear his voice and suddenly start to feel bad for not listening. But then again, I wouldn't have had to hear this at all were it not for him.

This is all his fault. He became a part of my life. He left my life. He...

I clear my thoughts and try to focus on what he's saying. Try to keep my eyes from straying to his neck, his shoulders, his hands.

 _They're real,_ I think. _He's real._

I nearly buckle under the severity of the realization. He's alive. He's here. With me. In 221B Baker Street, London, England. After - what has it _been?_ \- three years, Sherlock, _my Sherlock_ , I believe I have the right to say, is back here with me.

And I couldn't feel worse.

I feel guilty about it, but I want to punch his face in. I want to fake amnesia and pretend I don't know him. I want to shove him out the door and slam the door in his face. I want to jump into the TARDIS with the Doctor and pretend I never met Sherlock.

But I can't.

I can't pretend. I can't be Rose Tyler. I can't become a show on the telly.

And not just because I can't actually do those things.

It's because I _can't_.

I cannot - do not have the physical or mental ability to - hurt Sherlock in any way. Despite all that he has done, everything he's made me feel, I cannot make myself despise him. I can't feel anything bitter for him.

Drowning in my thoughts, I pull myself back into reality.

I glance into his eyes and see something unfamiliar. Something akin to emotion.

Concern. Remorse. Passion.

It's almost overwhelming, almost unnerving, to see emotion in Sherlock's eyes.

Something churns in my gut, but I ignore it and look away. Once again, I try to focus on what he's saying.

Something about Molly helping him, about Moriarty being dead, about Mycroft trying to him start again somewhere else but he just couldn't.

I look straight into his eyes, my gaze questioning.

 _Why, Sherlock? Why couldn't you?_ the unspoken question hovers in the space between us for a moment before Sherlock's gaze wavers.

He leans back and takes up the gauntlet.

"I couldn't - John, I - Okay, I will explain this as logically as possible," he sounded as though he was trying to convince himself. "When separated from you, all my deducing abilities seem to lose their strength. My work is hindered, I'm slower. Therefore, in order to maintain the greatest amount of success while solving cases, I need you to be a part of my life-"

He stops abruptly, and I notice his voice almost sounds pleading at the end.

Perhaps Sherlock feels something for me.

I try to ignore the little burst of happiness that blossoms in my chest and dismiss the notion. _Sherlock Holmes, feeling something for someone?_ I practically scoffed at myself.

I close my eyes and lean back.

_Try not to get too excited. It's Sherlock._

I open my eyes and my gaze falls upon Sherlock's face, and lingers there.

The expression on his face is a collage of guilty, imploring, vulnerable, desperate hope.

Sherlock has hope too.

I look properly at the man before me. His expression, his clothes, his little blue scarf.

Over his shoulder, I can see the kitchen counter, with its pile of wet, empty teabags.

I turn my head and gaze at the bright yellow smiley face adorned with bullet holes on the wall.

In the opposite direction, I see the skull that I have so effectively replaced.

A little _haha!_ flashes through my brain as I realize that I have successfully beaten a skull in the competition for Sherlock's attention.

I blink at my thoughts.

_I am insane._

Sherlock gets up and paces around the room like when he's got a three patch problem.

A nasty little bugger, hope is. And when two people share it, it's impossible not to read into what the other's hope is.

I yearn to know what Sherlock hopes for. I can see it in his eyes, but cannot identify it.

Something I don't know about Sherlock.

A weird, unreasonable sort of panic bubbles up within me.

I take a deep breath.

I close my eyes and take it all in.

This one person... this one, singular individual of the eight million people who live in London, means so much to me. I need him. He is sustenance. He keeps me alive. He is my everything.

I realize it with a jolt, sitting up suddenly on the couch. It's actually rather dense of me to have not realized earlier.

I am doomed to spend the rest of my life with a sociopath.

He turns sharply when I sit up, and I turn towards him, gazing into his questioning eyes. An inexorable emotion spreads through my chest, my arms, my legs, my head. I feel dizzy, woozy, giddy when I think of it, but I know what it is now.

Love.

I love him.

I love Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

Part 5: Something Warm

My mind reels at my realization.

 _How could I not have noticed this earlier?_ I nearly panic as the previously unknown emotion blossoms through my chest.

So this is what love feels like.

I want to laugh. I feel like this is the funniest thing I've experienced in a long time.

 _I'm not just in love_ , I realize. _I'm in love with Sherlock Holmes._

It's hilarious.

I've fallen in love with possibly the most emotionless being on the planet. And now I'm trapped.

I can't believe in the vague, uncertain emotions that may or may not have been flickering in his eyes earlier.

It hurts.

After three years of loneliness, pain, hopelessness, misery, I am reunited with Sherlock.

And still I feel pain.

I know I have no chance for anything remotely romantic with Sherlock, and yet my heart yearns for him. It's unnerving. How can you want someone like him? Someone so...robotic?

I remember suddenly that that isn't the case at all. Sherlock is, perhaps, the most heroic, compassionate man I could ever have known. The words I said to that black stone with the golden writing all those years ago come flooding back into my memory. I realize that everything is just hidden beneath layers and years of closing himself off from everyone, from not trusting anyone.

How can he be so...so...

There aren't any words to describe him.

Just one.

Sherlock.

Suddenly I realize something that I probably should have taken into account a little bit earlier.

Sherlock Holmes is a man.

As am I.

I have not, nor ever will in the slightest possible way, be gay.

Except maybe now that I have this strange urge to wrap my arms around the man who stands before me and never let him go, I suppose I should consider the fact that I might be gay.

But I'm not.

As I stare into Sherlock's surprisingly bright, intense eyes, I realize that I'm not a homosexual.

There's nothing sexual about how I feel about Sherlock. There's just this strange feeling of... _warmth_.

And I know, it sounds ridiculous, even to me. It doesn't make any sense. But I cannot think of anyone in this moment who I'd rather be with. I have never felt this way about any man or woman ever before, and it frightens me. I really don't desire Sherlock in, well, you know, that way.

I will admit though, that he's bloody fit.

But at this moment, if I were to tell Sherlock how I feel about him, I would tell him about how his smile makes my day, and the glimmer in his eyes as he sees right through you fills me with pride. I would make sure he knows that every time he insults someone, my insides shake with laughter, and the little smile he gave me right after he stole that ashtray made my heart melt.

Not that I had known it then.

Sherlock clears his throat, and I realize that amidst all my strange, uplifting, soul-crushing pondering I haven't really said anything to him in the whole past hour he had been speaking to me.

I suppose I owe him the sound of my voice.

"Sherlock," I begin, my voice gravelly and strangely empty.

He whips his head around and turns to me his eyes filled with that same inexorable emotion again. It looks like hope, but I still can't identify it. I can't believe in it.

"Sherlock," I try again, "if...if you want to stay here, you're welcome to. It'll be like old times, eh?" I nervously chuckle, but it sounds heavy.

He remains frozen in place, just staring at me. I wonder what must be running through his funny little head.

"Really?" he asks, his voice barely above a whisper and his eyes wide with...something. "You'd let me stay here?" he sounds incredulous, as though living in this flat with me would be the most wonderful thing in the world.

But of course he isn't thinking that.

I nod silently, never leaving my gaze from his kaleidoscopic eyes.

Something breaks in his eyes. They're suddenly filled with life, with trust, with hope- there's no ambiguity about it now. And yet there's something else. Something missing, something I cannot identify. I think back to all the times I watched him while he solved a case, and his eyes were as large as saucers, filled with excitement, confusion, brightness...and yet something else.

The one evasive little emotion that Sherlock expressed whenever he was-

 _Oh,_ I realize with a start.

_He's happy._

I take a step towards him, preparing to shake his hand and perhaps give him a pat on the back.

What actually happens, though, is absolutely unexpected.

Sherlock, without breaking eye contact, strides straight up to me and grabs my face.

I freeze. His eyes are now devoid of anything except that one emotion, the brightest, the most human.

 _He's the happiest I've ever seen him,_ I realize a moment before his lips come crushing down upon mine.

They're chapped, but soft, full of something incredibly foreign to both Sherlock and myself.

I realize that I am analyzing Sherlock's lips.

Which are currently upon mine.

My eyes widen; I just can't help it. Here is the man who once said, "Alone is what protects people," kissing me with the most raw, uncharted, but passionate emotion. I close my eyes and fall into the sensation.

When his lips finally free mine, I gently open my eyes, and reflexively tighten my arms around him. _Wait_ , I wonder, _When did they get there?_

His eyes are still full of the dazzling happiness, but something else has crept its way into his expression.

I see doubt, fear, anxiety, and surprise. Probably at both himself and me. It hits me like a ton of bricks that I really am _not_ the only one who suffered all these years. Earlier today I supposed that perhaps he missed me, and perhaps he would want to stay, perhaps he actually cared about me.

But now I know.

Sherlock, who cut himself off from everyone, who never understood sentiment, or manners, or societal norms, did miss me, does care about me, does want to stay.

I succumb to my earlier wish and wrap my arms around him, trying to convey to him all the warmth I possibly can. We stay there, standing awkwardly, as I hug him with determination.

I want to warm his heart.

* * *

_Part 6: Something About Us_

It's incredibly irritating.

Sherlock hasn't spoken to me or shown any indication towards his intentions based on his actions of three days ago.

 _Three days_.

Shaking off my irritation, I look up at my adorably obnoxious flatmate, who has easily fallen back into the way of life of three years ago. The idiot is lopsidedly draped across the sofa, laptop sitting on his chest. He looks so goddam _cute_ whenever he does his research, it isn't my fault that I can't help looking over at him fondly-

Sherlock suddenly looks up and briefly meets my eyes. Before I can even respond in any way, Sherlock's eyes are once again glued to his laptop, preoccupied with the article he's reading.

_Urgh!_

The irritation surges through my veins once again, as Sherlock has been doing this nearly every waking moment for the past three days. I know better than to read into the glances too much, but what the hell am I supposed to do? He always just innocently glances up at me at random moments, perhaps when he thought I'm not looking, and then returns to whatever he had been doing. I'm not quite sure what's going on in that funny little head of his, but then again, do I ever?

I've had enough of this. I put down my coffee, march over to the sofa, close Sherlock's laptop, and sit down on the coffee table, arms crossed over my chest. Sherlock jerked suddenly when I closed his laptop lid; then calmly lifted his laptop up. Moving into a sitting position, he places his laptop on the couch next to him. He returns my sharp glare with raised eyebrows and muddled eyes. The emotions I saw in his eyes a few days ago were now lost within the gloom.

"Good morning, John. Seeing as you shut my laptop so abruptly, I assume you have something of vital importance to speak to me about."

Suddenly all my irritation vanishes, instead replaced with a warm fuzzy feeling that I'm not too keen to talk about. He looks up at me curiously, as though genuinely interested and confused as to what I want to say to him.

"Well, Sherlock. Certain events of the past few days have been on my mind, and I was hoping to discuss them with you," I respond as subtly as I can, hoping it won't be lost on Sherlock.

"Any event in particular?" he asks, his eyes moving away from mine. I almost groan in frustration.

"Sherlock, you know exactly what I'm talking about. I just wanted to know what your intentions are towards me," I demand, realizing how awkward I sound far too late.

"Whatever are you talking about?" Sherlock tilts his head slightly and narrows his eyes in confusion. That was it. It was evidently time for extreme measures. I grab Sherlock's face and pull it into mine, crashing our lips together. He struggles for a bit, before relaxing and gently placing a hand on my shoulder. When I let go, I look up at him.

"That's what I'm talking about," I say quietly, nervously anticipating some sort of Sherlock-esque analytical response. What I hear is something else entirely.

"Well, John, I suppose this is rather-I'm not quite sure if-" he pauses hesitantly, evidently at a loss for words. _Sherlock Holmes,_ at a loss for for words. He tries again.

"Look John, I'm not quite sure what's happening here. My innate concern for your well-being has seemingly doubled or tripled. For some reason, you make me feel something. Sentiment? I'm not sure at all. In these matters, I assume you are the expert. All I know is that your presence increases my heart rate, so I can only presume that I am feeling love for you, as Irene did for me. But I am sure merely an increased heart rate is not the only indication for love. What else is possibly there? I suppose the desire to keep you close, the desire you touch you, the desire to keep you safe, safer than I keep myself-I assume these things have something to do with this, right? I don't know John, honestly. This is new, and absurd. I always thought that being in love would hinder me, create a weak spot for me. And though it has hindered me in the past, it feels as though the strength that you give me is so much stronger than that. So tell me John, what _are_ my intentions towards you?" Sherlock overflows in a flurry of rods and emotions and confusion, looking at my with that expression again, the hodgepodge of emotions dancing in his eyes, wild with excitement.

Something in my chest hurts. It's not painful, more like a dull ache. A pleasant dull ache. A filling ache. It seems that Sherlock has been able to warm my heart.

I wrap my hands in his, and look into his eyes. It's all right there for me to see, clear as day. His eyes swirl with excitement and adrenaline as I press my chest to his. I close my eyes before I press my lips to his and realize that I had fulfilled my wish.

Somehow I was able to warm Sherlock's heart. And that knowledge alone is enough to lift me to the moon and back. I pull back and look into his eyes once more and realize one more thing.

_I'm home._

 

 

 

 


End file.
